Chapter 24
SOPHIE
I finished packing a box of knickknacks while Anthony delicately wrapped my wineglasses in newspaper.
Which I’d arranged on purpose, of course, because watching this big, tattooed man handle fragile things amused me.
Maybe that was a little on the nose, considering how that big, tattooed man had taken care of me when I’d been fragile.
I never thought I’d arrive at a place where I’d be comfortable with an ex-con living in my little community, but here we were.
In my mind, Marigold Cottages was an essentially female space.
I mean, Nicholas had a mouthwatering streak of metrosexual in him—the jewelry he wore, the art he loved, how much he enjoyed theatre—but there was nothing female about Anthony.
Except maybe how unashamed he was to care for the other boys.
He openly engaged with Miles, equally happy listening to him natter about insects or superheroes.
And everyone in the Cottages chatted with Hamilton, but Anthony stopped by most often, usually for a drink in the late afternoon before heading to work.
And by “a drink,” I meant a shot of carrot-horseradish juice or some other Hamiltonian horror.
Also, I didn’t want to dehumanize Anthony, but he made me feel secure, like having a guard dog on premises. These days, when I saw strangers lingering at the bus stop outside the Cottages, I figured they were waiting for the bus, not waiting to attack me. Talk about personal growth.
I unpeeled the theatre quotes from my wall and was packing away my favorite, A playwright is someone who lets her guts hang out on the stage.
—Edward Albee, when my phone rang. Angela’s name appeared, along with the surname Givemore Girls, because I hadn’t known her well when I’d added her contact info.
“Hey,” I said. “Thanks for calling back.”
“C’est bon. In your message you said you’re looking for the tea about the other guests at Frank DeYoung’s party?”
“You know I write plays, yeah? I base them on true crime, so I’m digging around for inspiration.”
“Oooo! I love true crime. I’m obsessed with this makeup artist influencer who talks about murder while she does her face.”
“Is her makeup any good?” I asked. “Send me the link.”
“Certainement. But wasn’t Frank’s death an accident?”
“Sure, but it’s still a great background for a play. A dead music producer in a mansion. I’m just looking for inspiration. You know, ‘based loosely on.’ So anything you can tell me about the other guests?”
“Especially CJ, right? She’s the prime suspect?”
“Absolutely,” I said, feeling disloyal to Ocean.
“She’s only interesting because Karina hates her. Jane—you know, my mentor?”
“Yeah, I know who she is.”
“Well, she says Karina is crazy jealous and she’s got a serious temper.”
“Really?”
“Apparently she throws things. Let’s see, there’s George and Helene Kagant. Beard and Bird.”
“Beard and Bird?”
“’Cause he’s got that Old Testament look and she’s like a chickadee. Guess how they made their money?”
“Hedge fund?” I asked.
“Windshield wipers. They invented a new hinge or something. Frank invested in them early, paid for prototyping and attorneys and all. They sold to a big company and made an absolute mint.”
“How do they know about windshield wipers?”
“George worked as an engineer. For medical instruments, but I suppose the expertise transfers.”
“Huh,” I said. “So they owe the DeYoungs for investing in them?”
“Big-time. Though Jane says the DeYoungs probably made more money off the patents than George and Helene did.”
“Ooh, I like that as motive. And what about Jane?”
Angela blew a puff of air like a Frenchwoman. “She came by her money the old-fashioned way. She married it.”
“Her husband died?”
“Both of them.”
“That’s pretty true-crime-y.”
“Ha! She’d make a great black widow, except at least one died of cancer, which you can’t really pin on her. And Jane cares too much about Brand Jane to kill anyone. I mean, no shade, she’s done a lot for World of Goods. But that’s part of her self-image: she is a good person doing good things.”
I watched Anthony crumple a page from last week’s SB Independent and wrap it around one of my four unmatched champagne flutes.
I felt a pang when Jane mentioned World of Goods.
I loved the theatre, I planned to devote my life to the theatre, but World of Goods saved lives by the thousands.
The tens of thousands. They shipped vaccines and insulin to war-torn regions; they provided water purification, surgical supplies, and antibiotics.
So I said, “I wonder if I could volunteer there. At World of Goods. Like, once I learn more about development?”
“You mean volunteer for free?” Angela asked.
I couldn’t help myself, I laughed. “Yeah.”
“Huh.” She took a sharp breath. “Oh! Did I tell you? Jane didn’t win the Millerbrandt she wanted!”
“That’s the award?”
“Yeah, I guess she’s not the best human on earth after all. She’s so pissed. She actually thinks Frank didn’t support her loudly enough. Tragically, he’s too dead to push down a flight of stairs.” She paused. “Too soon?”
“God, Angela, yes,” I told her. “Wait, was he on the award committee?”
“Nah, but he was a big swinging donor, he could’ve tipped the scales.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“He probably—and I’ll deny saying this to my dying day—thought someone else deserved it more.”
I considered that. “Do you think Karina didn’t want him to support Jane?”
“Why would she do that? Oh! Because Jane’s skinnier and prettier and better in every way? Nah. Karina already bagged the big money. She treated Jane with a sort of gentle pity.”
“Huh. What’s Karina like? Other than resenting CJ. Were they having an affair?”
“Ooooh! Karina and CJ! No, no, nobody was having an affair. Frank was a hundred years old and Karina is toxic levels of het.”
“Boring. What do you know about Sunny Wheeler?”
“He’s worthless,” she told me. “He only donates to life-extension scams. And he’s handsy, too.”
I growled into the phone. “How are men still getting away with that?”
“Because we haven’t figured out how to procreate without them,” she told me. “Also, sometimes they’re nice and wealthy.”
“Like Frank DeYoung.”
“Yeah, he was one of the good ones,” she admitted. “Even minus the millions.”